Secretum Lingua Caritate
by JamesLuver
Summary: Sometimes there are a thousand things that can't be described adequately, but they exist all the same.
1. Mamihlapinatapei

**A/N:** Originally posted October 2017 on Tumblr. Requested by **annambates**.

Interconnecting scenes from various times during the DA canon.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

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_1\. Mamihlapinatapei_

_(The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.)_

The night is cold, but John doesn't mind. Tonight, he doesn't really want to sit in the servants' hall.

The other servants keep bringing up his lordship's missing snuffbox. Egged on by Thomas and Miss O'Brien and out of earshot of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, the possibilities of its whereabouts are examined over and over again. Daisy thinks that a spirit might have taken it. Gwen wonders if Lord Grantham might have misplaced it without even realising. Thomas and Miss O'Brien keep smirking at him and dropping hints about it fetching a pretty price for someone. No one else, thankfully, seems to think he has anything to do with its disappearance, but it does not help the knot of anxiety in his stomach. So here he is, out in the cold just to get a bit of solitude.

The back door opens.

"Mr. Bates?" Anna's voice floats towards him, her broad Yorkshire lilt making his stomach flutter for an entirely different reason. "Are you here?"

"Yes," he calls out. Any desire for solitude shamefully flees at the prospect of spending a quiet five minutes with the head housemaid. He hears her heels clicking on the flagstones, and a moment later she rounds the corner, immediately fixing on him. He likes this stack of crates because it's at the right height to lean against with ease, putting no extra pressure on his knee.

"Budge up," she says without preamble, and he is helpless to resist her. He shuffles to his right to accommodate her, and she hops up on the crates beside him, her feet swinging slightly. She is several inches off the ground, and the sight is almost unbearably endearing. He tries not to think too much about how much he likes tilting his head down when he's speaking to her.

"Are you all right?" he asks her. He is genuinely interested in her answer, but sometimes he just needs to distract himself from the thoughts in his head.

She nods. "Yes. Just a bit tired. It's been hectic today."

It certainly has been. And the weight of the missing snuffbox presses down upon him, making him anxious and tired in an entirely different way. Still, he musters a smile for her benefit, hoping that his troubles don't show on his face.

He isn't successful. Doesn't seem to be successful at anything when it comes to her. She makes him feel a thousand things that he has no right to. Her smile is safety and danger all in one go.

It terrifies him.

Anna turns her gaze to the sky as she says, "Never mind you asking me if I'm all right, it looks as if I should be asking you that question."

"I'm fine," he says. It comes out snappier than he'd intended, and he softens his tone. "It's like you said. It's been a very long day, that's all."

"They'll find the snuffbox, you know," she says quietly. "Just wait and see. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not," he says, a lie of the highest order.

Anna seems to sense that he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. She lapses into silence. He's grateful to her. It's one of the many, many things that he loves about her, the fact that she knows when to ask a question and when to leave someone to their thoughts.

He feels guilty for even putting the word love in the same sentence as Anna's name. He has no right to love her. Has nothing to offer her. He's frittered the best years of his life away on a marriage that was always doomed to fail. Ruined himself with a criminal record. Brought shame on himself by being a drunkard. Even without Vera hanging around his neck like an albatross, lost somewhere in the world like a soul left behind to haunt him, he wouldn't have anything to offer her. He is damaged goods, and Anna is so good. So pure.

For a long time, neither of them speaks again. It suits John. He likes that he can just sit there with her without being expected to talk. He likes that she has never once expected him to be anyone other than himself.

It only adds to the danger, to the deepening feelings that grow within him like tender seeds. How she isn't married yet is beyond him. What is wrong with the men of Yorkshire? Are they all blind and stupid? Anna Smith is the strongest, most incredible woman he has ever come across, and how her merits have been lost on the others is a mystery to him.

He tries not to think of that too often. Of the fact that one day a man _might _catch her attention. That one day he might have to endure watching them together, might have to see her smiling at someone as if the world starts and ends with them. Might have to sit and force a smile at her wedding. At a _Christening_.

It does not bear thinking about.

So he pushes it aside. Surprises himself when he offers, "I wish I knew where to find the snuffbox so this whole thing can be put to bed."

If Anna is surprised that he is continuing that line of conversation after all then she doesn't show it.

"I know you do," she says softly. "I wish the same. Perhaps we can team up and find it together."

"Like Sherlock and Watson?" he jokes weakly.

"Why not?" Anna's lips twist in a rather sardonic manner. "I happen to make a very good sidekick."

"Oh, you wouldn't be a sidekick," says John. "You'd be Holmes, I'd be Watson. You're intelligent and lightning quick and you know how to read a situation in a split-second. I'd have no chance of competing."

She tilts her head to the side, offering him an enticing view of her pretty, pale neck. "Oh, I don't know, Mr. Bates. I think you'd compete very well."

He flushes hot all over at her words, swallowing hard and averting his eyes. There had been a flirty edge to her voice, he can't deny that, but he has to resist the temptation to read anything in to it. Nothing can come of it, no matter how much he might want it. He has no right to it. She is not to be his.

More silence. Their little exchange has killed off his ability to think of anything to say. He's never been like this before, so tongue-tied in the presence of a woman, like a boy with his first crush. Everything about their friendship, as much as it is his solace, frightens him too. He is walking a fine, blurred line between the two distinctions, and he isn't sure what he can do to stop it. Doesn't quite know how to interpret Anna herself. Doesn't want to admit to himself that there might be feelings on her behalf, too, because it is only doomed, and he doesn't want to be the one to break her heart, inevitable though it is. He needs to find a way to distance himself from her, to silently let her know that the boundary must never be crossed.

But he can't seem to find the way to do it. As much as he wants to keep her away, he finds himself irresistibly drawn to her too. So instead he sits there in silence, mind whirring, very blood crackling with the weight of things left unsaid. There are a thousand possibilities in that silence. Is she waiting for something? Anticipating him carrying on the flirtation? More?

There's definitely something troubling her. In her lap, her hands twist together. He's noticed that she has that habit, her fingers toying with each other as she turns something over in her mind. It fascinates him, even though it shouldn't, as everything about her does.

"There's something that I'd like to say," she says at last.

"What is it?" he whispers.

"It…it might not be what you're expecting."

"Sounds ominous."

"Not really." Anna takes a deep breath, her voice shaking slightly. "You see, there's something that's been on my mind for a while. I'm not sure whether I should say anything or not, but I've always felt that honesty is the best policy, whether the risk pays off or not." She turns back to him, her eyes like blue flames. His heart contracts in his chest, and he finds himself mesmerised by her, desperate to tell her to stop for fear of her breaking things between them, helpless to do anything but listen—

"Anna? Are you out there?"

At the sound of Mrs. Hughes' voice, Anna jumps, and hops guiltily from the crates, as if she's been caught doing something she shouldn't.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes!" she calls, straightening her dress.

"Lady Sybil has rung the bell. You'd better come."

"I'm coming," Anna says. She turns to him then, shifts from foot to foot, heaves a deep sigh as if she is carefully selecting the words in her head.

"Mr. Bates, what I wanted to say…" she says tentatively.

He feels his heart threatening to break free. "Yes?" He should stop this.

He can't.

She's staring at him in a most disconcerting manner, a miasma of things in her eyes. There are too many strands to disentangle, flashing with so many things that he can't focus on one to decipher. All he can do is wait.

For a moment, the air is heavy with the weight of a thousand things. For a moment, he sits poised on those crates, his stomach fluttering wildly, waiting for her to break the silence.

Wondering what he truly wants her to say when she does.

For a moment, it seems as if they're on the cusp of a hundred thousand possibilities. For a moment, a whole future seems to bloom irresistibly in his chest, his heart aching for the want of it.

Love.

Her.

But then Anna shakes her head. She tears her eyes away from his face and drops her gaze to the floor. Everything else falls away with it, until he's back in the present moment, until he's back to being an ex-convict with a wife and nothing to offer anyone.

"Never mind," she says, and walks away.


	2. Basorexia

**A/N:** Originally posted on Tumblr March 2018; requested by **Awesomegreentie** and **annambates**.

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_Basorexia_

_(An overwhelming desire to kiss.)_

In the pale grey light, Anna sits alone in the window. Her knees are drawn up to her chest. The glass is frigid at her back. The cold air bites in to her skin. She doesn't care. Over the years, she has grown used to feeling the chill. Sometimes, she thinks that it has crystallised within her very bones, that it lives in her marrow. She has spent so many frozen and desolate nights alone, both at Downton and here in their cottage. She has even spent many nights in an icy, dank cell, on a hard little bed, moth-eaten blankets doing nothing to combat the damp that lives in the very walls of prisons. Yes, she is very accustomed to feeling the cold.

The warmth in her chest now is more than enough to combat the sub-zero temperatures.

What a sight is before her. Her husband, sleeping in their bed once more. It's something that sometimes she'd been frightened that she'd never see again. An absence that she'd been terrified that she'd forever have to endure alone. She has always needed John, but in recent years she's needed him more than she ever has done, and the thought of being torn away from him for the rest of their days had completely paralysed her.

But they're together again now. He'd promised her that that was the end of it, that he would never leave him again. He's made some tall promises in his time, but she believes this one. He would never have returned to her if he'd thought for one moment either of them would be at risk. And he won't leave her now.

It's been such a long time since she was last able to simply look upon him. It's been so long that she's almost forgotten what it's like to watch him sleep. It's a rarity at the best of times, and it has been denied to her for so long. She's not going to waste a single second of it now.

John is tangled up in the bed sheets, one foot sticking out from the end of the bed, rasping snores issuing from his throat. His hair has been mussed by both the pillow and her hands, passionate mere hours earlier, and the creases on his face are smooth. He looks at peace with the world. Happy.

It's been such a long time coming for the both of them. She hopes that the New Year will bring more of it, instead of endless despair and heartbreak.

Anna loses track of time as she watches her husband slumber. It doesn't matter. They have nowhere to be, not today. Before they'd left the party yesterday, Mrs. Patmore had found them, telling them that she'd whispered the news of John's return in Mrs. Hughes' ear and the housekeeper was adamant that they spend Christmas Day together, catching up on yet more time missed. She had promised to take care of Lady Mary; Lord Grantham would be able to cope one more day without his valet.

They would be fools not to take up such a generous offer. So, right now, they have nothing spoiling. Endless hours yawn ahead of them, to be filled with whatever they please. The early hours were filled with tender, desperate lovemaking; Anna has barely slept. She doesn't need sleep. Not right yet. When she'd woken thirsty at dawn, she'd crept from their bed and has not yet returned, needing to take in as much of him as she can, to imprint the image of him to her mind.

He stirs. She starts.

"'Na?" he slurs sleepily.

"I'm here," she says quickly, hopping down from her seat. The floorboards are freezing against her bare feet, and she scurries back over to the bed before he can fully register that she was gone. He blinks up at her, eyes hazy, as she pulls back the covers and slips in beside him. He's naked beneath their sheets, and she snuggles in to him, resting her head beside his on the pillow and moulding herself to his side.

"You're cold," he complains, his hand finding her waist nevertheless.

"I'm never cold when I'm next to you," she whispers.

"No, you just steal my body heat and leave me freezing instead."

"Do you begrudge me that, Mr. Bates?"

"I do when your feet are like blocks of ice," he says.

"You don't mean that," she says, trailing her finger down his cheek. Now that she's back with him again, all anxiety melts away. For now, they can simply be. And it is enough. More than enough. She wants to remember the good times they've shared, the good times that are still to come. On this magical free day, she doesn't want to be pulled down by the past, by uncertainties. She just wants her husband. Her _free _husband. The man who loves her beyond anything she has ever known before. The man who has proven time and time again that he'll do anything for her.

"I don't know," he murmurs, his eyes half-lidding at her touch. He is so very, very beautiful in the grey morning light. There are worn lines of worry in his face, fatigued with the troubles that he's shouldered right alongside her. But none of that has diminished the light or the undeniable love in his eyes whenever he looks at her. Their hearts are twined so tightly that it hurts to be apart, but it has been a comfort too; never once, in all of her loneliness, has she ever doubted his love for her. She hopes that he knows she has never wavered in turn.

Her heart swells in her chest like the saturated banks of the River Thames after a deluge, the love so difficult to contain. Moving closer to him, she brushes her lips against his, squeezing him tighter in the circle of her arms. He pulls away slightly, his lips turned upwards. She is smiling too; she's left the imprint of it upon his mouth.

"What was that for?" he says.

"A wife can kiss her husband if she so wishes."

His hands find the dip of her back beneath the tangle of bedsheets. "I suppose she can."

"A wife can _admire _her husband if she so wishes," she continues, running her fingers down his broad, hairy chest, thrilling at the quiet strength he possesses. He makes a sound deep in the back of his throat.

"That sounds…acceptable," he says.

"Good." Tentatively, she hitches her body over his, marvelling at his soft solidity. He is the only place she feels truly safe anymore. He exudes steady dependence, her very own scarred Hercules holding up the sky; as slow as the process has been, as many knock-backs as she has faced, Anna has found that her own strength is blossoming under their careful nurture. She is not the Anna of before, but she no longer sees her rebirth as a worse version of herself. She is battle-worn herself now, and so very tired, but she's still standing. Still standing.

One of John's hands leaves the anchor on her waist to cup her face. His thumb brushes against her lower lip, and she parts them instinctively for him. His gaze upon her is heavy, and she feels it in her very soul. Her skin crackles with anticipation. Her heart flutters like the frantic wings of an escaping bird against her ribs. The longing is rising between them once more; she can't remember the last time that she felt so breathless at the thought of their lovemaking. Finally, _finally _it feels as if her metamorphosis is complete; there's nothing she wants more than to crush her mouth against his, to press him down into the mattress and feel him along every single inch of her, delicious and real.

"I love you, Anna May Bates," he says softly.

That's all it takes. Those six words. Those six words, uttered in the most reverent tone she has ever heard. He could have turned away from her at any point in the last two years. They have stood strong through every raging storm. She could not love him more in return.

Fiercely, she leans down, captures his mouth with a passion he doesn't seem to expect. The noise he makes in the back of his throat makes her spine tingle, and he runs his hands along her, gasps her name against her lips.

On this Christmas morning, the snow outside continues to fall softly, blanketing the countryside in delicate white powder, the picture-perfect scene. It is the time of peace, of joy. Of miracles.

Inside, kept warm and content by their love, Anna has never felt so hopeful for the New Year to come.


	3. Capernoited

**A/N:** Originally posted on Tumblr August 2019; requested by **Awesomegreentie** and **annambates**.

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_Capernoited_

_(Slightly intoxicated or tipsy.)_

When the winter fair came around, Anna was eager to go. She had missed the last one to come to town because she was under the weather, she said, and she would not pass up the opportunity to go with him now. Besides, things are different now. He is free, at long last. They are _married_. It's about time they got to have some fun together.

Despite his ambivalence, John agrees with her. He's not really the type of man to enjoy wandering round a fair, but he remembers back those long years to that warm summer when the fair came to town and he'd agreed to go with Anna before she'd fallen ill. The giddiness of spending time with her outside the abbey, wrong as it had been, had buoyed him through the day, and had made him feel lighter than he had done in years. Nothing could have come of it, he'd known that—they were going with the rest of the servants, for God's sake—but for those glorious hours, it had filled him with a longing he had never known before. He'd had visions of winning something at the coconut shy and offhandedly passing it across to her, saying that it wasn't something he needed, and had pictured her blinding smile as she'd pocketed it with a delighted word of thanks…

And so he agrees to go with the rest of the servants quite readily, ignoring the malice on Thomas' face. Let the under butler think what he likes. He's past caring. The younger man's attitude has not changed towards him despite the fact that he saved his skin, and it shows John just what kind of man he really is—not the kind he should be wasting his time on. There are far more important people around.

Like Anna. Her eyes glow as they plan their evening out. Even curmudgeonly Mr. Carson is being dragged along, despite his horrified protests—it's at his lordship's insistence. Their employer has his faults, John can grudgingly agree to that, but his unfailing kindness with those he employs is not one of them. He has told them all to take the night off as a treat for all the hard work they do. Taking time off is not Mr. Carson's speciality, and he looks lost at the mere thought of it.

None of the others care. Throughout the next days, John catches snatches of conversation about the fair wherever he goes, whether it's gossip between the housemaids or peacocking between the footmen. And there can be no denying the excitement on Anna's face whenever the topic is brought up. He hopes, for her sake, that it lives up to expectations.

And, at last, the day arrives. The excitement reaches fever pitch. None of the younger members of staff appear able to concentrate on their duties, which sends Mr. Carson into a tailspin of panic. For once, he is not able to restore order with his thundering orders and his indignant blustering that things are not being done properly. Not even soothing words from Mrs. Hughes can calm him down, but it doesn't make a blind bit of difference; today, things are just this way.

Even so, John is glad when it _is _time to walk down to the village. As the other servants pull on their outdoor garments, he tugs gently on Anna's elbow and leans down to her height so he can mutter in her ear.

"Please let's keep away from Mr. Carson tonight," he says. "I don't think I can bear to listen to him grumbling under his breath about the order of the world. It will put a dampener on the evening."

Anna giggles, touching her fingers to his forearm. "Why, Mr. Bates, don't you want him to spoil our fun?"

"I'm not sure how much fun _I'll _be having," he says, "but I certainly don't want him to spoil yours."

"Nothing can spoil mine," she tells him decisively. "You're here with me."

The words make his heart swell, and he risks reaching out to squeeze her hand.

"Just promise me one thing," she says.

"What's that?"

"Promise me that we'll sneak off for a while on our own. We deserve a little bit of alone time."

"Gracious, Mrs. Bates, are you propositioning me in public?"

She rolls her eyes. "Silly beggar, of course not! But we so rarely get time off to do something like this…I just thought it would be nice if we could make a date of it."

He feels instantly regretful of jesting. Yes, it would be nice. He hasn't had many chances to treat her to a date during their long courtship, mired as it was by his first marriage; he'd spent the first eighteen months of their marriage locked away from her. She, more than anyone in the world, deserves to have her heart's desire. If a date is one of them, then he will do whatever is in his power to make that happen.

Purposefully, he lags behind the others as they walk down to the village, putting extra emphasis on his limp. It earns him disgusted looks from Miss O'Brien, but her opinion hardly matters to him, and soon there is a decent distance between him and Anna and the others. Anna has caught on to his intentions, judging by the mischievous grin on her face, and as the others disappear round the corner, she slides her hand into his, swinging them slightly.

"Alone at last," she says, and it's an echo back through the years, to the first time he _was _properly alone with her, already starting to feel things that he'd thought he would never be able to act upon.

"What would you like to do first when we get there?" he asks.

"I don't mind," she says. "Anything as long as I'm with you."

His heart swells.

The group breaks almost as soon as they reach the village. Alfred goes off to sample some of the food. Jimmy swaggers off, no doubt hoping to catch some poor village girl's eye. Mr. Carson is almost frogmarched through the entrance by Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. Thomas slouches off alone and Miss O'Brien skulks around with a sour look on her face, as if she can't think of anything worse. Anna tugs on his hand and he allows her to lead him away. She is attracted by the bright lights and the smells, and he is happy to follow her to the ends of the earth.

She doesn't ask that of him, of course. Instead they while away their time exploring every nook and cranny of the festival. They snack on the various food stalls. He wins her a prize at the coconut shy—his excellent aim clearly impresses her, and if he was a younger, vainer man, he would no doubt enjoy strutting for her.

Anna pronounces that having all this fun is thirsty work, and he immediately gets her something to drink. She takes the mulled wine gratefully, and drinks deeply from the cup. It puts colour in her cheeks, and he basks once more in her beauty and light. She asks for a second, and he is more than happy to oblige.

They wander around the stalls together until Anna pulls up short, giggling. John frowns at her.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Look over there!" she says. "Some cheeky beggar has set up a mistletoe booth!"

John follows her gaze. It's true: hidden away, like something sordid or magical, depending on the character, someone has tacked a piece of mistletoe above a pretty wooden shed and is charging a penny for each kiss. There is quite the crowd around it.

"I bet Jimmy is somewhere in there," he says. "Dragging some poor girl along."

Anna breaks into peals of giggles. "Are you jealous, Mr. Bates?"

He wrinkles his nose. "Certainly not. The only woman I ever want to kiss again is standing right beside me."

For some inexplicable reason, she finds this funny, bursting into peals of laughter all over again. He arches his eyebrow at her. Charming. He'd thought it was something romantic to say.

"Was it really that funny?" he says moments later when she's still laughing.

"I can't help it!" she snickers, her shoulders shaking. There are tears in her eyes, and her cheeks are ruddy. It strikes him then.

"Are you _drunk_?" he asks, bemused.

"No!" she says, sounding guiltily indignant.

"I think you are," he smirks.

"I'm not. I've only had a couple." But she's squinting at him a little as if she's trying to bring him into focus. How had he missed that before?

"Even a couple can get you drunk if you're not used to drinking." Which she isn't. It's a strict water diet for the servants unless it's a special occasion, but even then Anna rarely participates, claiming personal preference rather than in solidarity to him.

"I'm not drunk," she repeats stubbornly.

"Squiffy, then."

"Mr. Bates!" she says, his name coming out slurry at the end. "I can't be drunk because I'm on duty."

John winces. Ah, yes. She still has to undress Lady Mary before they retire for the night. That could cause complications; Lady Mary would likely share his view and find the idea of a drunken Anna endearing and amusing, but he knows that his wife would be mortified in the morning, and Mr. Carson would likely hit the roof.

"I think we should get you some water," he says. "And perhaps something else to eat. It might make you feel a little better."

"I'm not—"

"Drunk, I know," he finishes for her. "But we can never be too careful, my darling."

A smile breaks over her face at that. Alcohol makes her freer. "I've always liked that, you know."

"What?"

Being called your darling. It makes my heart flutter."

_Vino veritas_, John thinks. He feels a fierce surge of love for her. She is beautiful, this woman he is lucky enough to call his wife, on both the inside and the out. Eight years ago, he had never imagined that his life would have turned out like this when he'd first stepped inside Downton's back door. He's had more than his fair share of tribulations since then, but each and every one has been worth it for moments like this, when he is afforded a snatched moment of freedom with Anna, her eyes sparkling like champagne and her mouth tasting of wine—

Anna pulls away, breathless and thrilled. "Mr. Bates! What on earth was that for?"

He hadn't even realised that he'd kissed her until just now; he rubs his hand against the back of his neck, embarrassed by his total loss of control in such a public setting. Anna's cheeks have gone pinker, no doubt aided by his actions, he suspects, but her smile is pleased and he knows that she secretly enjoyed him losing himself for a moment. If he's honest with himself, he can't regret it, either.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "Sometimes I'm just overwhelmed by how much I love you."

"Charmer," she teases, but her eyes are glowing. "You say the sweetest things. I just want to tell the whole world how much I love you and what a wonderful husband you are…"

Her tongue is still made loose by the alcohol, only enhancing her friendly chatter. John has horrible—and rather flattering, if he is completely honest with himself—visions of her returning to Lady Mary tonight and waxing lyrical about everything they've shared this evening, including the details of their kiss in full view of everyone.

"Come on," he murmurs, to distract him from how utterly kissable those red lips still are, his mouth tingling with the taste of the wine. "Let's get going. There must be some water around here."

"Mr. Bates," Anna says indignantly, "I'm not—"

"—Drunk, I know," he finishes for her and, unable to resist a swift peck to her cheek, he guides her back towards the festivities in search of something fortifying for her to drink. He smiles. At least—for once!—he'll have something to tease her about in years to come.


	4. Duende

**A/N:** Requested by **sillybeggar** on Tumblr.

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_Duende_

_(Unusual power to attract or charm.)_

Anna comes across the younger members of staff crowded around the table, giggling together over something or other. There's no Mrs. Hughes around, which she supposes is why they feel at ease enough to do so.

"What's all this, then?" she asks. At the sound of her voice, they all jerk around. There's a scramble to hide whatever it is they're poring over. Anna spies Gwen in their midst, her face clashing admirably with her hair. Thomas is the only one who shows not the slightest hint of guilt, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it up.

"Why, are you gonna go running to Mrs. Hughes?" he asks through a plume of smoke.

She scowls at him. "Of course not." That's rather rich, really, coming from the first footman, who is always in the middle of some scheme or another, and would go to the butler or the housekeeper at the first opportunity if it meant he was getting someone else into trouble. Hadn't he and Miss O'Brien already tried that, when Mr. Bates had first arrived? There had been no missing the snide remarks they'd made about not wanting Mr. Bates to overexert and hurt himself.

"Leave her alone, Thomas," says Gwen, finding her voice in the face of Thomas' words. "Anna's not like that." She moves to tug something from behind one of the younger maids' backs, then lays it flat on the table. It's a magazine. "This is what we were looking at."

Anna moves closer to the table, peering at the photograph which is splashed across the full spread.

"Where'd you get this?" she asks, pulling it closer for a better look.

"Maisie's beau works in the newsagents in Thirsk. She asked him to get us a copy if he could. So he did. It's only a bit of fun. We're not hurting anything."

"I know," Anna reassures her, but she doesn't think Mrs. Hughes would see it the same way. As housekeeper, it's her staunch duty to keep the young women under her charge in line, and she'd likely have a fit if she knew they were sneaking about looking at glamorous pictures of movie stars. It would give them all the wrong idea, she'd say, and install a false sense of entitlement into them.

She probably doesn't give them enough credit for understanding their limits, but at the same time Anna can hardly blame her. The world is a dangerous place for women, an unfortunate lesson she learned a long time ago.

Still, she can't deny that she likes looking at the glamour, either. She doesn't feel envious of what Lady Mary and the other Crawley girls have, not like some might, but sometimes she does wonder what it might have been like if she'd been born into different circumstances. There's no harm in escaping into a daydream every once in a while.

Lily evidently agrees with her; she sidles up beside her, peering over her shoulder.

"He's so handsome, isn't he?" the younger housemaid sighed, gesturing at the picture of Owen Moore.

"He's all right, I suppose," said Daisy. "Nowhere near as handsome as Thomas, though." She sneaks a look in the footman's direction to gauge how her words have been received. Thomas smirks at her, glancing himself in William's direction. The boy looks distraught, like a puppy who has been kicked by its owner. Anna feels sorry for him. If only Daisy could see what a kind heart William has.

Alas, she is far too enamoured with Thomas to spare a thought for anyone else. Smiling glibly in Thomas' direction, she scarpers away when Mrs. Patmore's irate tone rings through the vicinity.

Most of the others take that as their cue to get back to work. Lily picks up the magazine and, after taking one last wistful look at Owen Moore, she closes it and hands it back to Maisie. With a furtive look, Maisie sneaks it out of the room.

It's not until much later in the evening that Anna gives the magazine another thought.

The candles are burning low in their holders, globs of wax running down the sides like milk tears. Yawning, Anna rubs at her eyes and glances down at her work. The hem of Lady Mary's dress is almost finished.

"You should go to bed."

Mr. Bates' quiet voice almost makes her jump; they've been sitting in such companiable silence at opposite sides of the table for an hour now, and she'd almost forgotten he was there. She glances up at him to find him giving her a soft look, less guarded by the midnight hour and the soft haze of tiredness shimmering in his eyes. Her stomach does a funny flop, and she busies her hands again to distract from the sensation.

"I've got to get this done. Lady Mary wants it for the morning. I ought to have finished it sooner. It's my own fault."

"I doubt it. Three girls to dress and your other duties as head housemaid? That would be unmanageable for most."

"It's a good job I'm not 'most', then," she says, tongue in cheek, and his gaze softens further.

"No," he agrees, "you're not." Then, realising that he might have said too much, he clears his throat and adds, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You can keep talking to me, if you'd like," she says. "That might keep me awake."

"Or perhaps it will put you to sleep. I'm hardly the most riveting company."

"Don't talk about yourself that way," she scolds. "I think you're wonderful company."

The words linger between them for a moment, but Mr. Bates rushes to fill the silence left behind, a crack in his usually stoic veneer. "The other maids seemed to be in high spirits tonight. I caught Lily and Gwen with something, but they hid it from me. I hope it wasn't something they shouldn't have. Mrs. Hughes would have their guts for garters if it was."

Anna snorts. "Oh, I don't doubt that."

"I wanted to say something to them, but I didn't want to come across as lecturing them when it isn't my place. But if the colour of Gwen's face was anything to go on…"

Anna laughs again. "Poor Gwen's face always goes that colour whenever she's feeling strong emotions. The curse of having that lovely ginger hair, I suppose."

"Perhaps you could have a gentle word with them? The last thing I want to see is them losing their positions."

"You're very sweet to worry, Mr. Bates, but I can assure you that there's nothing to worry about." She lowers her voice an octave in case there are any other servants lurking around in the darkness—she wouldn't put that past Thomas or Miss O'Brien. "Maisie brought in one of those movie magazines, that's all. Most of the girls have been swooning over the pictures inside. Just a harmless bit of fun, that's all. But if Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson got wind of it there would be hell to pay, so they've tried not to make it too obvious."

"And failed miserably," Mr. Bates says, his lips twitching. "The pair of them looked guilty as sin when I caught them. Mrs. Hughes has the nose for trouble that a bloodhound might for scenting out a rabbit. They're doomed."

"You have very little faith."

"More like I have a lot in Mrs. Hughes."

They share a laugh. Anna goes back to her sewing. Mr. Bates opens his book.

"So," he says as he flicks through the pages, his tone too casual, "did you have a look yourself?"

Surprised, Anna pauses. "Have a look at what?"

"The handsome movie stars."

Heat creeps into her own cheeks. "Don't tell me you'll give me away to Mrs. Hughes."

"Never. I just expected the head housemaid to set a better example to her younger and more impressionable charges." His eyes are twinkling. Still, there is something odd about his tone as he probes, "So, did you?"

"I might have."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you think? Did any in particular catch your eye? I've heard on the grapevine that Owen Moore is quite popular with the ladies."

Anna remembers his picture in the magazine. He _is _handsome, tall and dark, with smouldering eyes. "He's handsome enough, but he's not really someone I would be interested in."

Mr. Bates shakes his head in disbelief. "I never thought I'd hear a woman say that about one of the most handsome and charming men in the world."

"Handsome and charming are often in the eye of the beholder."

"Oh? Care to elaborate?"

She glances across the table at kind hazel eyes and a gentle smile and soft, round features.

She tries not to think about the way her tummy flutters when he leans in to whisper something in her ear, or the way her heart skips a beat when his hand brushes over hers, or the dreams she's had about fitting herself against his comforting bulk and reaching for his mouth…

How he can make her laugh like no one else with just a wry word, how her gaze is drawn irresistibly to him no matter where h is the in the room, how there's a dull ache in her chest whenever he goes down to London with his lordship.

How all of those things happen so effortlessly, so naturally, without Mr. Bates even realising.

"Anna?"

His voice breaks through the spell now; she realises that she's been staring in silence for too long. Averting her eyes back to her embroidery, she busies her hands once more.

"Perhaps one day I will," she murmurs.


	5. Cagamosis

**A/N:** Requested by **awesomegreentie** on Tumblr.

* * *

_Cagamosis_

_(An unhappy marriage.)_

Everything hurts. Nothing more so than his heart, which feels as if it's been driven through with a stake, each pulse feeling like it could be its last as it bleeds out.

_(He was happy once upon a time.)_

Anna turns from him at every opportunity. Her face is set in a grim line, her eyes haunted. Haunted eyes he grew used to seeing in the army. Haunted eyes overwhelmed by the dead.

_(She used to snuggle in to him, her arms ringed tight around his waist, her head tucked under his chin, those eyes dancing with the joys of the world despite what the world had tried to take away from her, the imprint of her smile against his chest.)_

He tries to get her to talk. She gives him one word answers ringed with finality, looking past him as if he's not as real as whatever she's fighting in her head.

_(He remembers a time when she would lay sprawled across his chest, naked skin pressed against his, and he would doze to the cadence of her voice as she chattered on about fixes to the cottage, or what they should do on their half day, content that he was holding the world in his arms.)_

The staff give them calculating looks. Thomas smirks, the housemaids are confused. Mrs. Hughes is watchful and mournful. Does she know more than she lets on?

_(At one time Thomas had rolled his eyes every time he saw them holding hands, the housemaids would giggle and sigh that it was so romantic that they had found love with each other, Mrs. Hughes had given them wry, knowing looks whenever they slipped back in from the courtyard, Anna more pink-cheeked than she ought to be.)_

He lingers in the servants' hall until gone midnight, brushing off Mrs. Hughes' concerns when she tells him that he should be in bed. What does that matter now? Anna isn't beside him. He doesn't sleep well without her there. And Anna doesn't seem to care. When she goes to bed she goes without a backwards look, an apparition slipping through his fingers.

_(He's haunted by the memory of her snuggled into his arms on the coldest nights, body twined with his, her fingers in his hair and on his face, pulling the covers tighter around them.)_

There's no hope of a kiss. That hope died the moment he returned from London and she balked against his request as if she could think of nothing more disgusting.

_(Such a contrast to those early days, when she had been ravenous for his kiss, for him, her mouth eager against his, teasing his lips apart with her tongue, shrugging her shift off so that he could have access to her burning skin beneath, and God, how he had loved drowning in her, the scent of her skin, the perfect weight of her, the breathless rise of her whimpers, all of it like coming home.)_

She'd loved him once. He thinks that love has died now, withered like a beautiful summer rose in the dark of winter. He doesn't understand how it happened, how it had died in the space of an evening, but it has and he's got to come to terms with that, somehow. Somehow. Even if it kills him. And it surely will, because he knows he will never stop loving her, no matter how long he lives. He has to find the strength to let her go, but he needs to know _why_. And surely that isn't too much to ask? Surely he has a right to be angry with her in the dead of night, when nothing makes sense and all he has is the grief that carries him forward on a tidal wave that drowns him?

_(He was happy once upon a time.)_


End file.
